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SANDWORT. 


"  Nothing  but  an  insignificant  dusty-leaved  weed  —  a  weed  transformed  into 
a  flower  only  for-an  hour  or  two  every  day."  — Lucy  Larcom. 


VERSES 


ANNA   J.   GRANNISS 


AUTHOR  OF 


"SKIPPED    STITCHES.' 


jFiftlj  2Tt)oxisanti. 


KEENE,  N.  H. : 

DARLING    A    COMPANY,    BOOK    AND    JOB    PRINTERS. 


Copyright  1897, 

by  ANNA  J.  GRANNISS. 

All  rights  reserved. 


PS 


To 
M.  E.  W.  AND  S.  I.  L. 

THIS  BOOK 

IS  GRATEFULLY  DEDICATED. 


808097 

LIBRARY 


FATHER,  BLESS  THEM! 

[My  Benefactors.] 


Father,  my  two  hands  ivere  empty, 

And  they  filled  them; 
Att  my  needs  aicake  and  crying, 

And  they  stilled  them. 

My  tired  feet  could  go  no  farther, 

And  they  stayed  them; 
All  my  fears  arose  together, 

They  attayed  them. 

Father,  is  there  no  small  service 

I  can  render  ? 
No  appreciative  token 

I  can  tender  ? 

I  have  never  seen  their  faces  — 

Thou  dost  know  them! 
Even  here,  this  side  of  heaven, 

Wilt  thou  show  them 

Some  new,  unexpected  blessing 

As  part  guerdon; 
Smile  upon  them  for  so  lifting 

Off  my  burden  ! 

Nightly,  let  their  sleep  be  sweeter 

For  this  sharing; 
Daily  make  the  pathway  safer 

To  their  faring. 

Give  them  length  of  days,  my  Father 

WeigM  them  lightly  — 
Let  thy  love  to  children's  children 

Shine  on  brightly! 

Add  my  prayers  to  thy  bounty, 

And  express  them 
In  the  gift  of  thine  own  presence  — 

Father,  bless  them ! 


Illustrations. 

1.  AUTHOR'S  HOME,  PLAINVILLE,  CONN.     (Frontispiece.) 

2.  A  VIEW  IN  FARMINGTON,  CONN. 

3.  A  VIEW  IN  WINDSOR,  CONN. 

4.  A  BROOK  SCENE  IN  BETHLEHEM.  CONN. 


INDEX. 

SANDWORT <j 

A  TUFT  OF  SANDWORT  IN  THE  SUN 13 

A  GALA  DAY 13 

THE  WORLD  MADE  NEW 14 

To  A  BLCE-BIED , 14 

Loss  AND  GAIN 15 

THE  ENTERING  IN 16 

LOVE'S  LOYALTY 16 

FIVE  PETALS •. 17 

FLOWER  FOLK 17 

BORN  INTO  HEAVEN 18 

A  BRIEF  SUMMER 19 

DRIVEN 20 

LIFE 21 

Too  TIRED  TO  TRUST 22 

FRIENDSHIP 23 

JUNE 24 

CALL  HER  NOT  AWAY 25 

A  BRUISED  REED 26 

IN  LOVING  MEMORY  OF  P.  F.  P 28 

SONG  OF  THE  REDEEMED 30 

ON  WINGS 31 

IDEAL  RECREATION 33 

TIRED  OF  THE  STRUGGLE 35 

' '  BE-BE  Goo-coo  " ,30 

IN  PASSING  THROUGH  THE  WORLD 38 

A  TOIL  SONG 40 

PILGRIMS  FARING  VALLEY- WARD , 41 

THE  WORLD  WANTS  A  SONG 43 

WHAT  DOES  IT  MEAN  ? . 45 

To  MY  MOTHER  ON  HER  SEVENTY-SIXTH  BIRTHDAY 47 

Two  WOMEN 52 

SINGING  BROOK 53 

A  PLEA  TO  THE  WINTER  WINDS 55 

A  PETAL  FOR  You 56 

FINDING  THE  FLOWERS 58 

THE  OLD  EVEN-SONG 60 


SANDWORT. 

This  wee,  wee  flower  I've  taken  for  my  own, 
Because  it  lives  with  me  here  on  the  plain; 

Into  my  life  its  tiny  roots  have  grown, 

And  we  together  share  God's  sun  and  rain. 

Hast  ever  seen  the  flower  ?     It  is  so  small 

And  has  so  little  in  itself  to  give, 
You  may  not  count  it  any  flower  at  all, 

And  yet  it  joys  to  be  allowed  to  live. 

It  opens  in  the  sunshine,  and  it  grows 

Close  to  the  ground,  and  is  of  such  small  worth 

It  takes  its  life  and  all  the  name  it  knows, 
Out  of  the  common  sand  upon  the  earth. 

Its  blossom  is  the  least  of  all  its  kind — 

There  is  a  kind  which  grows  beside  the  sea, 

While  on  high  mountains,  in  the  rarer  wind, 
Another  rings  small  bells  inaudibly. 

This,  loves  to  creep  along  the  edge  of  walks 
Almost  deserted,  and  half  overgrown, 

Where  you  may  see  tall  tiger-lily  stalks 

Still  standing  guard  o'er  happiness  long  flown 


10  SAM)  \VOKT. 

From  some  old  house,  untenanted  for  years. 

Whose  whispering  walls  and  vacant  staring  eyes 

Seem  ever  telling  tales,  and  dropping  tears 
Over  the  dust  of  buried  memories. 

Such  places  seem  to  court  the  tiny  bloom, 
As  if  to  kiss  the  footprints  of  their  dead, 

And  win  the  living  from  all  thoughts  of  gloom, 
When  back  to  their  old  haunts  the  feet  are  led. 

And  sometimes  I  have  seen  it  in  a  place 

Where  rumbling  wheels  passed  dangerously  near, 

And  even  there,  it  lifted  up  a  face 

Full  of  a  confidence  that  knew  no  fear. 

And  near  to  humble  homes  where  guests  are  few, 
Its  wee,  pink  star-eyes  have  been  known  to  shine  — 

I've  seen  the  sweetest  ones- 1  ever  knew, 
Near  such  a  quiet  door  —  it  grows  near  mine. 

I  saw  a  garden  once  —  from  left  to  right 

Grew  great  white  lilies  with  deep  golden  hearts; 

Pale  roses  blushed  just  at  their  own  delight, 

And  strange  flowers  hung,  shot  thro'  with  crimson 
darts. 

Amazed  I  stood  before  a  wondrous  bloom, 
And  half  in  awe  I  asked,   tk  How  came  it  so  ?  "' 

The  florist  said,  ki  We  gave  thix  all  the  room, 

Pinched  back  the  buds,  and  forced  the  flower  to  grow.  ' 

I  felt  half  saddened  as  I  left  the  place. 

For  this  was  culture,  and  applied  I  knew 
To  life,  to  human  minds  and  Christian  grace, 

And  highest  culture  comes  but  to  a  few. 


11 


I  thought  of  some  great  souls  upon  the  earth, 
With  lives  now  bursting  into  perfect  flower, 

Whom  God  in  wisdom  has  accounted  worth 
A  special  exhibition  of  His  power. 

Not  all,  I  mussed,  shall  be  accounted  so, 

And  yet,  the  least,  He  loves  enough  to  save; 

The  weaker  souls,  and  humbler  flowers  that  grow, 
Are  using  the  capacities  He  gave. 

With  thoughts  like  these,  I  saw  with  quickened  eyes, 
The  simple  flower  I'd  often  seen  before, 

But  this  was  when  I  came  to  realize 

And  love  the  little  sandwort  near  my  door. 

"Twas  afternoon,  long  past  its  opening  hour, 
And  shut  within  its  calyx  made  no  sign; 

But  oh,  I  thought,  this  small  uncultured  flower 
Is  like  those  many  other  lives  —  and  mine  ! 

This  never  was  pinched  back  to  make  it  grow; 

It  was  not  worth  the  forcing  fuller  bloom; 
But  with  a  million  others,  lying  low 

It  shares  the  light,  and  all  there  is  of  room. 

It  seems  to  know  God  loves  it  as  it  is, 

His  hand  is  all  that  ever  gives  it  care, 
Its  only  culture  is  that  it  is  His, 

Its  only  right  is  that  He  placed  it  there. 

Xo  graceful,  bending  stalk  to  swing  and  sway, 

Xo  graces  urging  it  to  rivalry ; 
Its  little  life  laid  open  to  the  day, 

Rooted  in  sand,  but  looking  toward  the  sky. 


12 


I've  seen  it  stepped  on;  seen  great  cruel  heels 
Go  crushing  thro'  its  petals  —  oh,  the  pain  ! 

Then  with  a  strength  adversity  reveals, 
I've  seen  it  lift  and  face  the  sun  again. 

And  such  is  sandwort.     At  my  life's  high  noon, 

I  pull  a  little  tuft  and  send  away; 
It  is  a  flower  that  closes  over-soon, 

And  will  not  blossom  later  in  the  day. 


A    Tl'FT    OF    SAXmVORT    IX    THE    SUX.  13 


A  TUFT  OF  SANDWORT   IN   THE   SUN. 

A   GALA    DAY. 

To-day  is  my  glad  gala  day, 
And  my  heart  beats  a  roundelay 

Set  to  a  merry  tune ; 
The  sun  is  bright,  the  skies  are  blue, 
The  world  is  fair,  and  friends  are  true. 

Life  is  a  rosy  June ! 

I'm  light  as  thistle-down  in  air, 
Just  floating  here  and  lighting  there, 

And  nowhere  very  long. 
I  hear  the  birds  in  glade  and  grove ; 
They  sing  of  youth  and  happy  love, 

And  life  is  like  a  song. 

I've  found  a  spring  that  bubbles  up, 
I  drink  from  out  the  leafy  cup 

Just  as  the  fairies  drink; 
You  wonder  where  do  fairies  go  ? 
I  must  not  tell  you,  but  I  know 

They  vanish  in  a  wink. 

I  go  to  join  a  fairy  ring, 

To  learn  some  pretty  things  to  sing 

On  my  next  gala  day; 
And  once  I  sing  a  fairy  song, 
Ah.  me!  and  once  I  sing  it  wrong 

I  sing  my  life  away! 


14  A  Ti'FT  OF  <  \\mvoRT  i\  Tin-:  >rv. 

THE    WORLD    MADE    NEW. 

The  world  is  so  old.  so  old,  alas! 

The  skeleton  years  show  through. 
But  it  only  takes  a  smile  and  a  tear 

To  make  it  all  over  new. 

A  tear  drops  down  from  a  small  gray  cloud, 
That  happens  to  hide  the  sun, 

And  washes  the  dear  old  wrinkled  face, 
And  the  miracle  is  half  done. 

Then  a  smile  keeps  dimpling  in  and  out,. 

Till  the  shy  green  things  peep  thro'. 
And  this  is  the  way,  year  after  year,       • 

The  world  is  made  over  new. 


TO   A    BLUE- BIRD. 

Up,  up,  my  pretty  blue-bird. 

Up  and  away: 
I  know  how  sweet  your  life  is, 

Day  after  day. 

You've  been  down  in  the  grasses- 

NTow  up  you  fly ; 
There's  a  nest  full  of  treasure 

Somewhere  near  by. 

Oh.  I  know  all  about  it  ! 

Fly  the  wrong  way; 
I  have  seen  you  maneuver 

Before  to-day. 


A    TUFT    OF    SANmVORT  IN    THE    STX.  15 

But  I  know  where  your  nest  is. 

Dear  little  cheat ! 
You  are  acting  a  falsehood, 

To  mislead  my  feet. 

It  is  plain  you  don't  know  me. 

Mrs.  Blue  Fluff, 
But  I  know  you,  and  love  you  — 

That  is  enough! 

I  won't  hurt  your  birdies, 

Honest  and  true ! 
( )h,  I  see,  they  are  eggs  yet, 
What — only  two  ? 


LOSS    AND  OAIN. 


You  thought  that  bitter  loss  of  yesterday, 

That  hope  resigned,  proved  all  your  toil  in  vain; 
You  did  not  know  it  was  a  step  toward  heaven, 
Though  taken  slowly,  with  a  sense  of  pain. 


1 

16  A    ri  FT  OF  sAxmvoirr  r\  Tin;  >rv. 

THE   ENTERING    IN. 

So  many,  oh,  so  many  dear  have  died, 
Yet  we  who  live,  no  better  understand 

What  death  is  like — the  dead  seem  satisfied. 
As  though  obedient  to  some  glad  command  — 

But  oh,  the  living  weep  on  every  hand. 

Some  call  death  a  condition:  man's  last  state  — 

Inevitable  end  to  mortal  strife; 
More  say,  a  portal  opened  soon  or  late, 

Through  which  he  passes  to  immortal  life, 
Where  souls  exult,  and  love  and  joy  are  rife. 

O  timid  soul  !  on  God  thou  hast  relied  — 

Why  fear  death  so,  since  nothing  harms  but  sin  ? 

Then  when  for  thee  the  portal  opens  wide, 
Be  not  afraid ;  with  hushed  feet  enter  in ; 

Christ  went  before,  thy  heaven  and  mine  to  win. 


LOVE'S   LOYALTY. 


We  grow  to  love  the  dull  routine  of  care; 

The  round  of  duties  done  for  Love's  own  sake. 
Until,  in  Life's  strong  chain  of  circumstance. 

We  tremble  lest  a  single  link  shall  break. 


KIVK   PETALS.  17 


FIVE    PETALS. 


FLOWER-FOLK. 

They're  bruised  and  torn,  so  constantly  for  us, 

The  lovely  flower-folk,  plucked  by  branch  and  stem, 

How  do  we  know  but  that  the  sudden  wrench 
Has  something  in  it  which  means  pain  to  them  ? 

Somehow,  the  scientists  have  come  to  know 
That  there  are  colors  which  we  cannot  see, 

And  insect  voices  all  too  finely  keyed 
For  us  to  take  note  of  their  melody. 

Our  senses  are  so  dull,  how  can  we  tell 

But  flowers  make  protest,  or  plead  and  moan, 

When  we  make  havoc  in  their  families, 

Which  may  have  ties  as  tender  as  our  own  ? 

Wee  flower-folk,  of  frail  but  ancient  race, 
Older,  wiser  for  aught  we  know,  than  man, 

For  what  you  may  have  suffered  at  his  hands, 
1  ask  for  all —  "  Forgive  us  if  you  can!" 


IS  FIVK    PETALS. 


II. 
BORN    INTO    HEAVEN. 

A  happy  thought  has  lately  come  to  me, 
And  taken  from  my  heart  a  haunting  fear 

That  just  the  "  letting  go  "  will  be  a  pang, 

Which  seems  to  make  the  price  of  life  too  dear. 

The  wisest  man  the  world  has  ever  known, 

Though  questioned  closely,  could  not  speak  and  say 

If  it  were  joy  or  pain  in  that  first  cry, 
When  he  drew  breath  upon  his  natal  day. 

Perhaps  (I  thought)  this  thing  the  world  so  dreads, 
That  we,  with  pallid  lips,  have  named  it  Death, 

May  only  be  the  soul's  unconscious  cry, 

When  in  the  air  of  heaven  it  catches  breath. 


FTVK    PETALS.  1U 


III. 
A    BRIEF   SUMMER. 

You  are  singing  your  song  too  soon  by  half, 
You  cricket  brown,  in  the  meadow  grasses, 

And  the  daisies'  hearts  are  all  blown  to  chaff 
By  the  chilly  north  wind  as  it  passes. 

Where  now  are  the  glories  the  June  days  pledged 
In  the  opening  leaf  and  budded  roses  '? 

The  birds  have  flown  with  their  young  half-fledged, 
And  with  their  flight  the  summer  closes. 

Where  are  the  sweets  the  humming-bird  misses  ? 

And  missing,  dies  for  a  sip  of  nectar  — 
Summer  is  chary  of  dewy  kisses, 

And  the  sun  hangs  high  a  pallid  spectre. 

The  sun  grows  cold  like  a  faithless  lover, 
And  summer  dies  as  his  glance  grows  colder; 

But  repenting  late,  he  bends  to  cover, 

And  in  gold  and  crimson  robes  to  fold  her. 


FIVE    PETALS. 


IV. 

DRIVEN. 

A  leaf  before  the  wind,  helpless  and  frail, 
Has  always  seemed  most  pitiful  to  me; 

Type  of  a  life  borne  down  upon  the  gale 
Of  swift  disaster  or  calamity. 

Given  no  choice,  but  hurried  blindly  on 
By  some  strong  force  outside  of  its  control, 

To  suddenly  discover  hope  is  gone. 
And  adverse  winds  let  loose  upon  the  soul. 

The  leaf  finds  lodgment  somewhere  at  the  last; 

Against  some  sheltering  hedge  it  finds  a  place  — 
Heaven  grant  poor  driven  souls,  when  life  is  past, 

May  find  a  lodgment  somewhere  in  God's  grace. 


FIVE    PETALS.  21 


V. 
LIFE. 

A  day,  a  month,  a  year, 
Over  and  over  again; 
A  smile,  a  sigh,  a  tear, 
And  the  bitter  and  sweet  have  been. 

A  day,  a  month,  a  year, 
The  story  sweet  and  old ; 
A  voice,  a  heart  to  hear, 
And  the  love  of  a  life  is  told. 

A  day,  a  month,  a  year, 

A  sweet  hope  laid  away; 

A  bride,  a  breath,  a  bier, 

And  pale  hands  folded  over  clay. 

A  year,  a  month,  a  day  — 

The  sands  of  life  are  run ; 

A  flower  of  fleeting  May, 

All  so  soon  over  with,  and  done  ! 


TOO    TIRED    TO    Till   BT. 


TOO  TIRED  TO  TRUST. 

"I'm  too  tired  to  trust,  and  too  tired  to  pray  !  " 

Said  one  as  the  over-taxed  strength  gave  way; 

"  The  one  conscious  thought  by  my  mind  possessed 

Is,  oh,  could  I  just  drop  it  all  and  rest ! 

But  will  God  forgive  me  do  you  suppose, 

If  I  go  to  sleep  as  a  baby  goes, 

Without  even  asking  Him  if  I  may, 

Without  even  trying  to  trust  or  pray  ?  " 

Will  God  forgive  you  ?     Why  just  think,  dear  heart, 

While  language  to  you  was  an  unknown  art, 

Did  a  mother  deny  you  needed  rest, 

Or  refuse  to  pillow  you  on  her  breast  ? 

Oh  no,  b^iit  she  cradled  you  in  her  arms, 

Then  guarded  your  slumber  against  alarms; 

And  how  quick  was  her  mother-love  to  see 

The  unconscious  yearnings  awake  in  thee  ! 

When  you've  grown  too  weary  to  trust  or  pray, 

When  over-wrought  nature  has  given  way, 

Then  just  drop  it  all,  and  give  up  to  rest, 

As  you  used  to  do  on  a  mother's  breast. 

He  knows  all  about  it  —  the  dear  Lord  knows, 

So  just  go  to  sleep  as  a  baby  goes, 

Without  even  asking  Him  if  you  may; 

God  knows  when  His  child  is  too  tired  to  pray. 


TOO    TIRED    TO    TRUST.  23 

He  judges  not  solely  by  uttered  prayer; 

He  knows  when  the  yearnings  of  love  are  there ; 

He  knows  you  do  pray,  He  knows  you  do  trust, 

And  He  knows  the  limits  of  poor  weak  dust  — 

Oh,  the  wonderful  sympathy  of  Christ 

For  His  chosen  ones  in  that  midnight  tryst, 

When  He  bade  them  sleep  on  and  take  their  rest, 

AVhile  on  Him  the  guilt  of  the  whole  world  pressed  ! 

You've  given  your  life  up  to  Him  to  keep  ?  . 

Then  don't  be  afraid  to  go  right  to  sleep. 


FRIENDSHIP. 

I  know  how  sweet  a  thing  it  is, 

How  strong,  how  steadfast,  and  how  true; 
I  thought  its  virtues  half  divine, 

And  proved  them  so,  my  friend,  in  you. 


JUNE. 

June,  with  sunshine  in  her  eyes, 
Passed  her  hand  across  the  skies, 
Then,  with  archly  smiling  lips, 
Blew  upon  her  finger-tips. 
Soon  the  air  grew  wondrous  sweet, 
Overhead,  and  under  feet, 
Under  feet,  and  overhead, 
Trooped  the  roses,  white  and  red; 
Trooped  the  roses  —  crimson,  white. 
Pink  and  yellow,  pale  and  bright, 
Till  they  perfumed  earth  and  air  — 
Koses,  roses,  everywhere; 
Wearied  then,  she  shook  her  head, 
And  the  petals,  white  and  red, 
All  the  petals  —  crimson,  white, 
Pink  and  yellow,  pale  and  bright. 
Fluttered  slowly,  softly  down 
To  the  border  of  her  gown. 
Half  dismayed  to  see  them  fall. 
Quick  she  turned  to  leave  them  all. 
And  looking  back  to  say  good-by. 
Met  the  warm  glance  of  July. 


CAT.L   HER    NOT    AWAY. 


CALL  HER   NOT  AWAY. 

0  spirit-sister,  call  her  not  away! 

All  heaven  is  yours,  the  others  are  with  you; 
We  here  on  earth  cling  closer  day  by  day, 
And  oh,  we  need  each  other  so  —  we  two! 

You  do  not  miss  her  presence  everywhere ; 

Then  urge  not  so  your  spirit  influence. 
Heav'n  is  not  dark  because  she  is  not  there, 

But  I  would  have  no  light  were  she  called  hence. 

There  are  no  tears  in  heav'n;  you  do  not  weep, 
But  sing  your  joyous  melodies  clear  through, 

1  should  not  sing,  but  sob  myself  to  sleep, 
For  all  my  years,  even  as  children  do. 

<O  spirit-sister,  call  her  not  away! 

I've  never  been  without  her  since  my  birth; 
You  have  the  others,  sister,  let  her  stay  — 

The  lone  one  needs  the  mother  here  on  earth! 


26  A    BRUISED    REED. 


A   BRUISED   REED. 

Like  a  bruised  reed  is  this  life  of  mine; 

Break  it  not  quite, 
Heal  it,  my  Father,  with  a  touch  divine, 

If  it  be  right. 

Let  it  once  more  stand  strong  in  its  own  place, 

And  breathe  and  grow, 
And  look  the  cold  world  calmly  in  the  face, 

Fearing  no  foe. 

Is  it  not  more  to  Thee  than  reed  or  flower  ? 

Enshrined  within 
There  is  a  conscious,  ever-living  power 

To  conquer  sin. 

This  life  of  mine,  with  all  its  pain  and  need,. 

Its  one  long  ache, 
Is  it  not  more  to  Thee  than  that  bruised  reed, 

Thou  wouldst  not  break? 

Then  lift  it  up,  my  Father,  and  I  pra\ 

Do  Thou  stand  by 
Till  it  can  bear  the  burdens  of  the  day 

Courageously. 


A    BRUISED    REED,  27 

* 

Do  Thou  stand  by,  till  it  is  strong  to  bear 

Temptation's  test; 
Till  it  lias  learned  upon  Thy  tender  care 

To  lean  and  rest. 

A  bruised  life,  if  it  be  dutiful, 

Bearing  its  scar, 
May  it  not  grow  to  be  as  beautiful 

As  others  are? 

And  when  the  world's  unpitying  eyes  have  scanned, 

The  scar  have  found, 
Then  let  it  plead — "  'Twas  here  God  laid  his  hand, 

And  healed  a  wound!  '" 


LOVING    MKMOKY    OF    P.     F.     P. 


IN    LOVING   MEMORY  OF 
P.    F.    P. 

She  was  our  friend  —  she  loved  the  things  we  love; 
The  same  fair  earth,  the  same  far  sky  above ; 
The  trees,  the  flowers,  the  pleasant  atmosphere. 
She  loved  them  all  —  but  lately  she  was  here ! 

She  loved  the  rocks,  the- mosses  and  the  fern, 
Learned  lessons  of  them  each  and  all  in  turn ; 
The  tender  grass,  the  lilies  of  the  field, 
To  her  receptive  soul  they  all  appealed. 

She  loved  the  voice  of  birds  and  piping  things. 
The  gleam  of  color  on  their  restless  wings, 
The  humming-birds  that  hung  above  her  flowers, 
She  was  their  friend  — but  lately  she  was  ours! 

The  foliage  she  loved ;  while  half  unseen 
It  tinted  distant  hills  with  misty  green, 
Until  the  spent  leaf  crimsoned  in  the  fall, 
She  noted  every  change,  and  loved  them  all. 

She  loved  her  friends  —  upon  her  heart  she  bore 
Their  griefs,  their  hopes  and  fears;  and  more, 
She  prayed  for  them,  and  as  kind  heaven  willed.. 
She  knew  the  joy  of  earnest  prayer  fulfilled. 


IN    I.OVIXG    MEMORY    OF    P.    F.    P.  20 

She  loved  all  service ;  nothing  was  too  small. 
Xothing  too  great;  she  freely  rendered  all. 
And  life  itself  she  counted  not  too  dear  — 
She  was  our  friend  — -but  lately  she  was  here! 

She  is  our  friend;  she  sees  what  we  shall  see, 
{If  we  but  follow  steps  set  trustfully) ; 
E'en  buds,  impossible  of  blighted  bloom, 
T'nfold  in  light  which  never  shades  to  gloom. 

She  sees  the  faces  we  so  long  have  missed, 
Those  newly  mourned,  and  some  but  lately  kissed; 
She  hears  their  voices,  clasps  their  welcoming  hands, 
And  joins  in  sweet  employ  she  understands. 

And  Him  she  served  —  she  sees  him  as  he  is: 
Her  face  has  caught  the  radiance  of  His; 
Awake — and  in  his  likeness  —  at  his  side 
Shadows  are  past,  and  she  is  satisfied. 


'  '•%^J  " 


30  soN(i  OF  Tin-:  KKOKKMED. 

SONG  OF  THE   REDEEMED, 

In  the  mighty  sweep  of  angelic  harps. 

There's  an  unresponsive  string; 
But  the  note  which  the  angels  cannot  wake. 

The  redeemed  of  the  Lord  can  sing. 
Shall  we  sing  it  together,  you  and  I. 
With  the  wondering  angels  standing  by  ? 
Shall  we  sing  it  out  in  the  courts  above, 
Heaven  is  ours  through  redeeming  love  ? 

There's  a  joy  the  angels  can  never  share. 

While  the  endless  ages  roll; 
The  joy  of  one  who  has  been  redeemed. 

The  joy  of  a  ransomed  soul. 
Shall  we  share  it  together,  you  and  I. 
With  the  wondering  angels  standing  by  ? 
Shall  we  share  it  there  in  the  courts  above., 
The  heaven  gained  thro'  redeeming  love  ? 

There' s  a  story  true,  angels  cannot  tell, 
Who  have  lived  with  God  in  heaven ; 

TTis  the  story  sweet  they  alone  can  tell, 
Who  have  sinned  and  been  forgiven. 

Shall  we  tell  it  together,  you  and  I. 

With  the  wondering  angels  standing  by  ? 

Shall  we  tell  it  out  in  the  courts  above, 

1 1*  a vi MI  is  ours  thro'  redeeming  love  ? 

Copyright,  1895,  by  The  Bigelow  &  Main  Co. 
[T'sed  by  permission.]. 


«)N     V,*IX(JS. 


ON   WINGS, 

Oh,  the  happy  things  on  wings. 
How  they  flit  and  fly  about, 
All  the  summer,  in  and  out! 

When  a  breeze 

Rocks  the  trees, 

There  they  sit,  and  swing  and  sing; 
Hidden  by  the  leafy  screen, 
There  they  lilt,  and  tilt  between 

Earth  and  sky, 
While  the  happy  days  go  by. 

•Oh,  the  pretty  care-free  things; 
•See  them  bend  the  grasses  down} 
See  the  gold  and  blue  and  brown 

Butterflies, 

Rest  and  rise ! 

.How  that  bee  hangs  there  and  clings! 
By  what  right,  you  ask,  does  he 
Hang  there  quite  so  greedily! 

If  you  please, 
Clover  is  for  bumble  bees. 


OX    WINGS. 

Oh,  the  joy  of  light  and  airf 
This  is  living,  this  is  life: 
Tell  me  not  of  toil  and  strife. 

I'm  in  tune, 

Xow.  with  June. 

Deaf,  and  dumb,  and  blind  to  care. 
Now  my  senses  are  unbound. 
Gone  joy-mad  with  what  they've  found 

While  on  wings, 
With  the  happy  summer  things'. 


Uiew  in  Farmington,  Conn. 


Stand  still,  and  let  this  grand  old  leafless  tree 
Teach  something  of  its  patient  strength  to  thee. 

Ideal  Recreation. 


IDEAL    RECREATION. 


IDEAL  RECREATION. 

i. 

If  life  to  thee  seem  one  unbroken  line 
Of  settled  tasks,  which  shackle  and  confine, 
Come  down  into  these  level  lowland  meads. 
And  find  the  remedy  thy  spirit  needs : 
Stand  still,  and  let  this  grand  old  leafless  tree 
Teach  something  of  its  patient  strength  to  thee. 
How  strong  to  wait  —  content  in  hopeful  dream, 
To  hold  its  empty  boughs  above  the  stream. 
How  still  the  water !  Has  it  aught  to  teach  ? 
Yes;  though  no  drop  the  ocean  ever  reach, 
Its  tranquil  calm  reflects  a  vaster  sea, 
Whose  ships  are  worlds,  which  sail  on  endlessly; 
Likewise  in  quiet  lives,  if  true,  may  shine 
Some  faint  reflection  of  the  All-divine ; 
And  they  best  image  Him,  who,  at  His  will, 
Possess  their  souls  in  patience  and  are  still. 


IDKAL    KECRKATIOX. 


II. 

When  cares  press  hard,  and  ways  and  means  perplex: 

When  voices  jar,  and  petty  trifles  vex, 

Seek  such  a  place  as  this,  by  God  keep  sweet 

And  clean  from  soilure  of  the  world's  rude  feet. 

Let  the  keen  wind  from  off  the  snowy  slope 

Breathe  into  thee  exhilarating  hope. 

This  ice-bound  stream  would  tell  thee  of  its  source, 

Around  what  hindrances  it  cut  its  course 

To  find  the  sea,  how  joyously  it  ran, 

And  yet,  would  stay  to  serve  the  needs  of  man  — 

Note  these  late  leaves,  that  shiver  as  they  cling; 

How  brave,  to  try  to  hold  their  own  till  spring! 

By  everything,  does  Nature  strive  to  speak 

Wisdom  and  comfort,  to  the  souls  who  seek ; 

Take  that  she  gives  so  graciously,  and  then 

Go  share  her  largess  with  thy  fellow-men. 

[By  courtesy  of  The  Connecticut  Quarterly.] 


\Iie\y  in  Ulindsar,  Conn. 


Note  these  late  leaves,  that  shiver  as  they  cling; 
How  brave  to  try  to  hold  their  own  till  spring  ! 

Ideal  Recreation. 


TIRED    OF   THE    STRUGGLE. 


TIRED  OF  THE  STRUGGLE. 

Grown  tired  of  the  struggle?     Then  rest  is  near, 
'Though  you  do  not  know  what  that  rest  will  be; 
It  may  be  to  slumber  more  peacefully 

Than  ever,  than  ever  you  can  do  here. 

It  may  be  to  lean  all  your  tired  weight 

Against  some  strong  shoulder  placed  close  to  yours- 

To  realize  that  while  life  endures, 
Love  bears  Life's  burdens,  nor  counts  them  great. 

It  may  be  to  carry  the  same  old  load, 

With  a  brave  new  courage,  which  from  above 
Comes  down  from  the  great  tender  heart  of  Love, 

To  sustain  your  steps  on  the  lonely  road. 

It  may  be  to  wait  for  a  weary  while, 

With  your  hands  tied  fast,  while  the  world  goes  on 
With  its  long  debates  of  the  pro  and  con, 

And  its  weak  decisions  to  —  frown  or  smile. 

With  the  world's  blind  measures  of  good  or  ill, 
You  may  wonder  what  it  will  mete  to  you; 
You  may  have  to  sit  the  long  session  through, 

And  then  rest  your  cause  on  a  higher  will. 


"  UK-UK  GOO-COO." 

You  need  not  mind  what  the  rest  will  be, 
For  some  way.  and  soon,  rest  will  surely  come; 
The  voice  of  complaint  will  grow  mute  and  dumb, 

And  the  voice  of  praise  find  its  own  sweet  key. 

So  tired  of  the  struggle !     How  glad,  how  sweet, 
When  lips  have  forgotten  their  old  sad  cry, 
Or  remember  it  only  as  pain  passed  by, 

When  struggle  is  over  and  rest  complete! 


"  BE-BE  GOO-COO." 

TO    B.    F.    G. 

Who'll  weave  me  fantasy  out  of  the  air. 
As  bright  as  the  sunlight,  as  fine  as  a  hair 
That  shines  in  a  tress  of  the  infantile  fair, 
For  a  dear  little  girl  that  I  know  ? 

Who'll  make  me  a  melody  out  of  the  winds. 

Of  soft  little  cooings  that  come  through  the  pines. 

Of  sweet-laden  zephyrs  atilt  in  the  vines  ? 

Who'll  paint  me  a  picture  in  delicate  dyes. 
Of  wild  wind-tossed  daisies  and  blue  summer  skies, 
As  blue,  oh  as  blue  —  why,  as  blue  as  the  eyes 
Of  a  dear  little  girl  that  I  know! 


"  BE-BE  GOO-COO."  37 

And  I'll  tell  a  story  of  nine  little  elves, 

Who  keep  all  their  dainties  on  tiny  leaf  shelves, 

To  feast  a  wee  fairy  as  gay  as  themselves. 

List!     Go  tell  the  elfins  in  fairy-land  dells, 
From  flower-stalk  steeples  to  ring  all  the  bells, 
And  draw  up  the  nectar  from  mossy-rimmed  wells, 
For  a  dear  little  girl  that  I  know ! 

She  will  sail  down  on  a  moonlighted  stream, 
And  land  on  a  fern  where  the  fireflies  gleam, 
And  pay  them  a  visit  to-night  in  a  dream. 

She's  going  to  sail  in  a  slumber  canoe  — 
Set  the  flower-bells  ringing  —  hush  —  that  will  do ! 
Make  haste,  little  fays,  for  wee  "  Be-be  Goo-coo," 
She's  a  dear  little  girl  you  all  know. 


IN    PASSING    TlWOrJrII    TIIK    WOULD. 


IN    PASSING  THROUGH   THE  WORLD. 

What  are  you  letting  the  great  world  do  ? 
Stifle  the  conscience  God  gave  to  you, 
Sully  the  thoughts  that  are  pure  and  true. 
And  blur  the  beauty  your  childhood  knew  ? 
Stay  —  what  are  you  letting  the  great  world  do 
To  that  soul  of  thine,  as  you  pass  through  ? 

What  are  you  letting  the  great  world  say  ? 

Nay,  not  that  it  charms  your  soul  away 

Into  the  shadow,  out  of  the  day, 

Out  of  the  sunshine,  into  the  gray; 

Oh,  what  are  you  letting  the  great  world  say, 

Xot  that  it  makes  you  forget  to  pray  ? 

What  are  you  letting  the  great  world  know  ? 

Xot  all  the  trials  you  undergo, 

Xot  all  your  burdens  of  care  and  woe, 

Xot  all  the  smart  underneath  the  blow. 

Hush  —  what  are  you  letting  the  great  world  know  '. 

These  are  the  secrets  of  how  souls  grow. 


IN    PASSING    THKoruiI    THE    WOULD.  39 

What  are  you  letting  the  great  world  see  ? 
Xot  what  you  do  for  s^pet  charity, 
Xot  your  poor  efforts  to  set  souls  free 
From  their  self-wrought  chains  of  misery. 
Ah,  what  are  you  letting  the  great  world  see. 
Aught  which  belongs  but  to  God,  and  thee  '? 

What  are  you  letting  the  great  world  find  ? 
This  needy  world  with  its  ceaseless  grind ; 
Each,  in  the  passing,  must  leave  behind 
Either  good  or  ill  to  his  fellow-kind. 
But  what  are  you  letting  the  great  world  find, 
Dust  or  jewels  from  heart  or  mind  ? 

What  are  you  letting  the  great  world  do  ? 
Win  you  away  from  the  good  and  true, 
From  the  simple  faith  your  childhood  knew, 
That  was  the  birthright  God  gave  to  you. 
Oh,  see  that  you  let  not  the  great  world  do 
A  wrong  to  your  soul,  as  you  pass  through! 


40  A  TOIL  sox(i. 


A  TOIL  SONG. 

If  toil  then  we  must,  we  will  toil  and  sing  — 
Oh,  somewhere  down  in  the  meadow, 

A  daisy  is  ready  for  blossoming, 

And  a  buttercup  casts  its  shadow! 
There's  a  fern  just  starting  now  in  the  wood, 
Our  world  is  so  lovely,  our  God  is  so  good, 
And  to  toil  with  gladness  is  as  He  wills, 
It  is  toil  without  him,  that  chafes  and  kills. 
If  we  may  not  gather  the  sweet  wild  things, 
Or  follow  the  flight  of  each  bird  that  sings. 
The  whole  world  is  better  that  birds  do  sing. 
And  fairer  because  of  each  wee,  wild  thing; 
And  our  toil  is  lighter,  because  we  know 
We  live  in  a  world  that  (iod  brightens  so  — 
To  some,  he  gives  leisure  to  seek  their  share. 
To  us.  he  gives  sweetness  that  floats  in  air, 

And  if  toil  we  must,  we  will  toil  and  sing. 
Life  is  made  of  lights  and  shadows, 

But  hope  in  our  hearts  will  keep  blossoming. 
Bright  as  buttercups  in  the  meadows! 


1'ILGRIMS    FARING    Y  ALI/KY-WARI).  41 


PILGRIMS   FARING  VALLEY-WARD. 

Lead  Thou  their  steps,  ever  so  gently.  Father, 

Down  life's  decline; 
When  earth's  support  shall  fail  them  altogether, 

Be  quick  with  Thine  ! 

They  have  been  strong  —  so  full  of  hope  and  courage 

'Twas  joy  to  climb; 
Xow  summit  passed,  strength  spent,  ah,  they  are  weary 

At  evening  time. 

A  little  thing  trips  tired  fest,  my  Father, 

And  trifles  wound ; 
Then  past  the  dangers,  hurts  and  griefs,  do  lead  them 

A  long  way  'round. 

And  let  them  linger  on  the  downward  journey 

In  frequent  rests, 
And  longer,  longer  be  to  us  who  love  them, 

Our  dearest  guests. 

They  sometimes  tell  us  of  a  distant  country 

They  call  "  The  Past," 
Where  lived  the  wee  white  soul-flowers,  early  taken 

Where  bloom  will  last. 


42  PILGRIMS    FAKING    VALLEY-WARD. 

They  were  too  fair  to  live  outside  of  heaven, 

And  yet  they  came, 
Perhaps,  to  breathe  the  air  of  earth,  and  leave  it 

Not  quite  the  same. 

There  was  for  them  no  passing  down  the  valley. 

Xo  shadows  gray. 
They  were  transplanted,  tender  buds  for  blooming; 

In  broader  day. 

Of  such  they  tell,  and  some  of  us  remember 

A  tiny  mound, 
Which  makes  to  us,  the  Past  forever  after 

Seem  hallowed  ground. 

These  pilgrims  bore  us  up  Life's  steepest  places, 

Now  at  our  hands. 
They  shall  receive  the  fullest,  tenderest  service 

Love  understands. 

Be  Thou  their  sure,  unfailing  staff  of  comfort, 
Lead  them,  dear  Lord; 

But  comfort  us  —  our  fathers  and  our  mothers 
Fare  valley- ward. 


THE    WORLD    WANTS    A    SONG. 


THE  WORLD  WANTS  A  SONG. 

"  A  song,  a  song  !  "  cries  the  giddy  world, 
"  We  are  tired  of  psalms  and  prayers; 

Give  us  a  song  that  is  light  and  gay, 
We  want  to  forget  our  cares  !  ' ' 

Not  for  the  world  in  holiday  dress, 

All  on  tip-toe  for  good  cheer, 
Would  I  think  to  sing  my  minor  strains 

Expecting  that  it  would  hear. 

I  cannot  sing  for  the  world  to  dance  — 

My  measures  are  all  too  slow; 
But  the  gayest  dancer  of  them  all 

Will  soon  weary,  and  we  know, 

There  comes  a  time  when  the  dance  is  done, 
When  the  lights  burn  low  and  dim ; 

When  the  weary  heart  would  rather  hear 
Just  a  plain  old-fashioned  hymn, 

Like  the  one  a  mother  used  to  sing 

By  the  trundle-bed  at  night, 
When  she  came  to  give  the  "  comfort-kiss" 

Before  taking  out  the  light. 


44  THK    WOKI,I» 

There  comes  a  time  when  the  crowd  falls  back. 

And  the  world  becomes  estranged : 
When  a  mother's  love,  and  the  hymns  she  sung. 

Are  all  that  remain  unchanged. 

••  A  song,  a  song  !  *'  cries  the  eager  world 

When  young  life  is  at  its  best; 
But  the  world-worn  heart  begs  for  a  hymn. 

Just  before  it  goes  to  rest. 

Sing,  you  who  may,  for  the  world  to  hear. 

Its  ballads  I  do  not  know; 
I'll  croon  a  hymn  to  the  tired  and  old, 

When  the  lights  are  burning  low. 


AVITAT    DOKS    IT    MKAN  '.'  45 


WHAT  DOES   IT  MEAN? 

i. 

It  does  not  matter  what  it  means,  poor  heart, 
The  dear  Lord  knows;  to  bear  it  is  your  part; 
Xor  think  some  strange  thing  happens  unto  you 
Which  lie  would  not  allow  so  if  He  knew. 
He  does  know.     In  His  all-wise  Fatherhood 
He  knows  it,  and  allows  it  for  your  good. 
He  is  not  hard,  you  do  not  think  He  is 
When  in  the  dark  you  find  your  hand  in  His; 
When  it  was  light  you  tried  to  walk  alone, 
And  thought  the  strength  He  gave  you  all  your  own. 
You  did  not  question  what  the  blessing  meant, 
Just  smiled  and  took  it,  satisfied,  content; 
You  did  not  think  it  strange,  you  thought  He  knew, 
And  planned  the  sweet  surprise  which  came  to  you. 
Tried  one,  then  do  you  take  life's  sweet  and  good, 
Yet,  cannot  trust  that  tender  Fatherhood, 
But  think  it  makes  mistake  whene'er  it  sends 
Some  hindrance,  which  your  eager  haste  offends  ? 
Or  when  He  lets  the  wicked  plot  your  harm, 
And  stir  a  whirlwind  when  you  seek  a  calm ; 
You  think  it  strange,  this  trial  swift  and  keen, 
And  in  your  weakness  ask,  "  What  does  it  mean  ?  " 


46 


n. 

I  think  the  language  of  God's  heart  would  read  — 
"  I  love  my  child,  I  note  his  slightest  need; 
I  long  to  prosper  him  in  all  his  ways, 
To  give  him  quiet  nights  and  peaceful  days ; 
But  if  I  do,  he'll  lose  himself  from  me, 
ISIy  outstretched  hand  he  will  not  wait  to  see: 
I'll  place  a  hindering  wall  before  his  feet, 
There  he  will  wait,  and  there  we  two  will  meet. 
I  do  it  not  in  wrath  for  broken  laws 
Or  willful  disobedience,  but  because 
I  want  him  nearer,  and  I  cannot  wait 
For  him  to  come,  for  he  might  wander  late; 
My  child  will  wonder,  will  not  understand, 
Still  half  in  doubt  he'll  clasp  my  outstretched  hand; 
But  when  at  last  upon  my  heart  he  leans, 
He  will  have  ceased  to  wonder  what  it  means.1" 


TO    MY    MOTHER,  47 


TO  MY  MOTHER  ON  HER  SEVENTY-SIXTH  BIRTHDAY, 
APRIL  20,  1897, 

What  shall  I  say  to  thee,  my  best  beloved  ? 

What  tender  speech 
Can  I  employ,  to  place  my  wealth  of  love 

Within  thy  reach  ? 

WTords  never  yet  have  told  what  loving  hearts 

Have  felt  and  known ; 
There  is  no  need  of  any  words  of  mine 

Or  thine,  my  own. 

I  used  to  think  I  loved  thee,  but  more  dear, 

Tenderly  dear, 
Thou  hast  become  in  growing  feebleness, 

Each  passing  year. 

^Iy  heart  is  full  to  breaking,  when  I  think 

That  you  must  bear 
Alone,  the  weary  weight  of  your  own  years; 

If  you  could  wear 

My  strength,  I'd  strip  it  off,  and  wrap  thee  round 

Fold  upon  fold; 
Then  spread  a  gift  of  all  my  happiest  day&, 

Told  and  untold. 


TO    MY    MOTH  Mil. 

For  you  to  walk  in,  like  a  sunlit  path 

Leading  away 
From  this  dark  path  of  pain  and  weariness;., 

You  tread  to-day. 

I'd  weave  for  you  out  of  my  sweetest  joys. 

A  gown  of  peace ; 
And  make  a  couch  of  all  my  hours  of  ease. 

Where  pain  would  cease. 

But  ah  !  Love  never  yet  could  so  fulfill 

Its  lovingness ; 
It  cannot  reach  its  measure  of  desire 

When  it  would  bless. 

But  do  lean  harder  on  me,  let  me  bear 

All,  everything  ! 
See:  I  am  strong,  I  shall  not  fail,  or  faint 

In  comforting. 

My  life  has  never  missed  a  single  joy 
Which  you  could  give; 

And  shall  yours  miss  a  single  comfort  now 
Not  while  I  live 

And  have  two  eager  hands  to  toil  for  you.. 

Glad  eyes  to  see, 
And  one  heart  full  of  all-enduring  love 

To  shelter  thee. 

It  is  not  self-denial,  mother  mine: 

Xo,  no,  for  hear  ! 
I  rather  live  together  as  we  do_ 

Year  after  year : 


TO    MY    MOTHER.  49 

Seeing  no  face  but  yours,  day  after  day, 

Within  our  home, 
Save  those  who  for  the  love  of  you  and  me, 

Do  sometimes  come. 

I'd  rather  mother,  though  a  thousand  charms 

Bid  me  away; 
Busied  in  simple  ministries  for  you, 

I'd  rather  stay, 

Than  visit  those  fair  lands  of  which  they  tell 

Beyond  the  seas ; 
Whose  dim  cathedrals  echo  all  day  long 

With  symphonies. 

I'd  rather  hear  a  blessing  from  your  lips, 

Than  be  thrilled  thro' 
With  any  earthly  music  howe'er  sweet, 

Heard  without  you. 

I'd  rather  shade  the  night-lamp  carefully, 

To  suit  thine  eyes, 
Than  feast  my  own  upon  the  sunniest 

Italian  skies. 

My  more  than  mother,  I  do  not  forget 

Those  early  years  ! 
My  father  dead  —  my  first  clear  memory 

Is  of  your  tears. 

You  were  so  brave,  and  yet  withal  so  frail ; 

The  mother's  heart 
Was  stronger  than  the  frame  which  shut  it  in. 

You  did  the  part 


50  TO    MY    MOTHER. 

Of  two,  and  for  a  dozen  years,  and  more, 

I  hardly  knew 
That  you  were  struggling  for  your  children's  bread, 

As  fathers  do. 

And  when  I  slipped  my  thoughtless  childhood  off, 

And  took  my  place 
Among  the  wheels  of  toil,  to  help  the  wage, 

(With  such  ill  grace.) 

I  did  not  see  how  grieved  you  were  for  me: 

I  was  so  blind. 
I,  for  a  little,  thought  our  lot  in  life 

Hard  and  unkind. 

Forgive  that  brief  rebellion  of  the  past  ! 

It  was  all  spent 
In  those  first  days —  Life  has  been  sweet  to  me. 

I  am  content. 

Denied  my  books,  I've  learned  some  needful  things 

Xot  taught  in  schools ; 
Lessons  in  life,  the  Master  set  for  me, 

And  all  His  rules, 

Have  been  laid  down  in  kindness  for  my  guide, 

And  now  I  see, 
That  first  hard  lesson  of  my  early  life. 

Was  good  for  me. 

And  mother,  since  the  others  died,  and  we 

Were  left  alone, 
Into  a  mighty  tenderness  for  you, 

My  love  has  grown. 


TO    MY    MOTHER.  51 

Make  large  demands  upon  it  as  you  go  — 

Each  grief  of  yours 
Must  be  my  grief,  each  joy  my  joy. 

While  life  endures. 

How  poor  and  tame  this  multitude  of  words  ! 

Your  heart  and  mine 
Have  felt  each  others'  beating  for  too  long 

To  need  such  sign. 

Mother  —  God  bless  you,  mother  !     To  His  will 

Be  reconciled ; 
I  thank  him,  that  your  lips  to-day  can  say, 

"  God  bless  my  child  !  " 


TWO  WOMEN. 

i. 

"  I  would  I  had  the  power."  she  gaily  cried, 
"  Just  to  win  hearts;  to  win  and  throw  aside  ! 
To  hold  them  captive  by  a  tender  smile, 
By  all  the  witchery  of  Cupid's  guile. 
I'd  bring  proud  hearts  to  bow  before  my  shrine. 
And  hear  Love's  plea,  ever  withholding  mine  — 
Oh,  for  the  gift,  the  gift  of  power,''  she  cried, 
"  Just  to  win  hearts;  to  win  and  throw  aside  !  " 

II. 

11  Ah.  for  some  grace,  some  gentle  grace,''  she  said, 
'*  To  keep  the  love  of  him  whom  I  may  wed; 
From  other  love  I'd  sacred  hold  apart, 
The  offering  of  one  strong  loyal  heart  — 
?Tis  highest  honor  manhood  ever  paid; 
The  costliest  gift  to  woman  ever  made  — 
God  give  me  grace  to  keep,''  she  softly  prayed. 
"  This  richest  gift  upon  Love's  altar  laid  !  " 


SIXGIXG    BliOOK.  53 


SINGING    BROOK. 

I  thought  I  heard  the  singing  of  a  brook 

Mingled  with  murmurs,  as  though  many  trees 
Were  chanting  all  together  from  one  book 

Whose  leaves  were  turned  by  some  sweet  summer  breeze. 
The  brook  sang  louder  as  I  ran  along 

Across  the  fields,  and  in  my  eager  haste 
I  stopped  but  twice  —  to  hear  a  bluebird's  song, 

And  pull  a  flower  a  butterfly  had  graced. 
Then  I  went*  on,  led  by  the  singing  brook, 

Straight  to  an  opening  in  a  lovely  wood. 
The  trees  were  chanting  from  an  open  book: 

I  peeped  between  the  leaves  —  you  see  I  could. 
This  is  the  brook;  here  is  the  very  place. 

These  ferns  and  grasses  whispered  at  my  feet; 
The  water  kissed  the  rocks  before  my  face, 

And  at  each  kiss  it  sang,   "So  sweet,  so  sweet  !  " 


54  SINGING  BROOK. 

You  see  the  sunlight  glinting  down  that  tree  ? 

In  it  I  stood  and  fingered  the  rough  bark 
And  thought  how  many  seasons  there  must  be 

Etched  into  it,  each  leaving  its  own  mark. 
A  little  farther  up  the  brook  you  see 

Two  slender  maples,  one  on  either  side, 
Leaning  their  boughs  together  lovingly 

Above  the  stream,  which  cannot  quite  divide. 
They  make  one  think  of  how  congenial  souls 

May  some  way  miss  each  other  at  the  start 
To  meet  where  no  dividing  current  rolls, 

When  they  no  longer  may  be  kept  apart. 
"  So  dear,  so  dear  !  "  chanted  the  happy  trees, 

And  one  more  leaf  was  turned  in  that  glad  wood ; 
'Twas  held  a  half  breath  by  the  careless  breeze, 

So  I  could  see.     I  read  and  understood. 
And  then  I  left  the  place  and  came  away. 

I've  learned  the  chant  the  happy  trees  repeat; 
I  know  the  music  of  the  water  night  and  day, 

Kissing  the  rocks  and  singing  "  Sweet,  so  sweet  !  ' 

[  By  courtesy  of  The  Connecticut  Quarterly,  ] 


A    PLEA    TO    THE    WINTER   WINDS.  55 

A  PLEA  TO  THE  WINTER  WINDS. 

O  ye  wintry  winds  from  the  icy  mines, 

Ye're  come  with  your  cruel  cold, 
Driving  snow  and  sleet  up  and  down  the  street, 

And  far  out  across  the  wold  ! 
You  ring  at  the  dome  of  the  palace  home, 

And  tap  at  the  rich  man's  door, 
But  enter  instead,  all  unwelcomed, 

The  homes  of  the  wretched  poor. 
In  your  savage  freaks  you  pinch  the  cheeks 

Of  poor  little  half-starved  souls, 
Who  too  well  know  why  their  pale  mothers  cry 

As  they  count  the  scanty  coals. 

O  ye  winter  winds,  forbear  to  blow  ! 

Where  the  hearth  is  cold  —  sink  low,  sink  low ! 

Go  battle  about  where  the  warmth  shines  out 

In  those  great  bright  squares  of  light; 
Go  where  children  sleep  instead  of  weep 

Through  the  long  and  dismal  night; 
Go  whistle  and  roar  at  the  double  door, 

Leap  into  the  flame-fed  flues, 
For  they  have  no  fear  of  your  fury  Here 

Where  the  warm  babe  laughs  and  coos. 
O  ye  wild  winds  bold  from  the  land  of  cold, 

Step  softly,  and  turn  about 
From  homes  that  are  dark  save  the  feeble  spark 

Cold  children  are  watching  out. 

Oh  ye  winter  winds,  forbear  to  blow, 

And  where  hearths  are  cold,  sink  low,  sink  low! 


.">!)  A     I'KTAI,    FOJJ    V()l\ 


A   PETAL   FOR  YOU. 

TO    M.    C.     K.    <i. 

Long  years  ago,  from  hard  unfriendly  soil, 
A  tiny  shoot*  crept  out  into  the  sun; 

'Twas  what  it  sought,  and  after  days  of  toil, 
A  few  pale  leaves  unfolded  one  by  one. 

It  had  no  beauty,  but  it  lived  and  grew, 
And  every  day  looked  upward  to  the  sky; 

Sometimes  God  spared  it  just  a  drop  of  dew, 
Sometimes,  for  days,  He  left  it  parched  and  dry. 

Rough  winds  passed  over  it,  and  bending  low 
Within  the  sheltering  grass  it  hid  away, 

And  lay  concealed,  contented  to  be  so 

Through  many  a  dark  and  unpropitious  day. 

But  yet  again  it  lifted  up  its  head ; 

The  sun  it  loved  was  pitiful  and  good, 
And  when  its  roots  were  warmed  and  comforted, 

New  leaves  uncurled  for  very  gratitude. 

Some,  passing  near  observed  it  carelessly, 
Others  passed  on  and  never  gave  it  heed : 

And  some  spoke  almost  rudely,  going  by 
And  seeing  where  it  grew,  called  it  a  weed. 


A    PETAL    FOB   YOU.  57 

But  there  was  one  who  knew  its  early  strife, 
And  said,  "  It  must  not  hide  away  and  die; 

It  has  a  flower's  roots,  a  flower's  life, 
Encouraged  it  will  blossom  by  and  by!" 

In  time  there  came  a  sweet,  refreshing  shower; 

A  kind  hand  gently  stirred  the  clinging  soil, 
Till  root  and  stem  rejoiced  in  secret  power, 

And  it  began  anew  to  strive  and  toil. 

And  when  the  sun  shone  out  it  drank  the  light, 
And  when  there  came  a  dark  and  stormy  day, 

It  waited,  with  its  few  leaves  folded  tight, 

Lest  some  rude  wind  should  tear  them  all  away. 

But  as  the  season  waxed  it  grew  apace, 

Till  one  and  then  another,  giving  heed 
Would  say,  "  It  surely  lacks  a  flower's  grace, 

Yet  after  all  it  may  not  be  a  weed!" 

Then  there  was  seen,  when  time  had  rung  the  hour, 

A  tiny  calyx,  scarcely  half  expressed ; 
And  yet  it  took  the  true  form  of  a  flower, 

With  all  a  flower's  desire  to  be  confessed. 

It  had  no  fragrance,  but  it  did  not  grow 
In  any  garden  where  the  flowers  are  fair; 

It  lived  its  life  with  few  to  care  or  know, 
And  never  thought  with  others  to  compare. 

This  falling  petal  shall  be  yours  alone, 
Because  you  owned  it  in  its  frailest  hour: 

While  yet  within  the  grass  it  lay  unknown, 
You  were  the  first  to  say  it  was  a  flower. 


FINDING    THE    FLOWERS. 


FINDING  THE   FLOWERS. 

I  wonder  how  the  dew  knows  where  they  are  ! 
There  is  no  moon ;  the  stars  are  faint  and  far ; 
I '11  watch  and  see,  I'll  hide  me  in  the  grass 
Close  to  a  flower,  and  see  what  comes  to  pass. 

A  little  chickweed  by  my  garden  grows, 
Its  tiny  self,  as  anybody  knows, 
Might  easily  be  missed,  yet  it  is  true 
I  found  it  yester'  morning  wet  with  dew. 

At  night  I  watched  and  saw  a  lovely  thing; 
White  velvet  moths  went  by,  wing  after  wing: 
The  pretty  things — their  life  is  but  a  breath, 
By  morning  they  may  all  be  burned  to  death. 

Around  some  light  their  death-dance  will  commence  - 
Moths  are  so  human  in  their  want  of  sense : 
They  singe  their  wings  once  at  their  shining  goals, 
Alas!  we  mortals  sometimes  singe  our  souls. 

I  watch  the  moths  go  by,  and  waiting  there 
A  sweet  moist  fragrance  steals  upon  the  air: 
The  dew  is  near;  I  wonder  if  it  will 
Find  my  wee  flower  —  Hush,  I  must  be  still! 


FIXDIXG    THE    FLOWERS. 

A  sense  of  something  stirring  in  the  dark. 
Viewless,  and  soundless,  though  I  stare  and  hark ; 
Then  all  at  once,  there  came  a  firefly 
And  flashed  his  lantern  in  the  chick  weed's  eye. 

And  right  before  my  face  the  dew  slipped  up 
And  filled  my  tiny  chickweed's  hidden  cup  — 
I  could  have  laughed  aloud  there  in  the  damp, 
The  dew  had  found  it  by  the  firefly's  lamp. 

Now,  when  I  see  on  moonless  summer  nights, 
The  rapid  twinkling  of  the  fireflies'  lights, 
I  know  they're  using  all  their  brillant  powers, 
Helping  the  evening  Dew  find  her  wee  flowers. 


60 


THE  OLD  EVEN-SONG. 

Who  will  sing  me  to  sleep  with  the  song  sweet  and  low 
That  was  sung  by  fond  mother-lips  long  years  ago  ? 
I  am  homesick  to-night,  and  my  heart  is  oppressed. 
And  I  so  long  to  know  the  full  blessing  of  rest 

I  have  grow,n  very  tired,  for  the  day  has  been  long, 
And  I  list  for  the  notes  of  the  old  even^song. 
In  the  calm  twilight  hush,  when  the  world  seems  to  wait. 
Till  they  come,  one  by  one,  thro'  the  old  cottage  gate. 

Is  there  no  one  to  sing  me  the  old  evening  hymn. 
Do  the  voices  all  falter,  the  eyes  all  grow  dim! 
Or  has  memory  failed,  and  forgotten  it  quite. 
Else  why  is  it  that  no  one  will  sing  it  to-night! 

Ah!  I'm  sick  among  strangers,  there's  none  left  to  know 
Of  the  song  which  I  loved  in  the  sweet  long  ago ;  — 
I'm  the  last  of  my  kindred  —  I'm  sheltered  and  fed, 
But  the  roof  is  a  stranger's;  the  bread  is  his  bread. 

Xever  mind  the  song  now,  for  I'm  falling  asleep. 
With  my  eyelids  too  heavy  and  weary  to  weep ; 
Do  not  fret  in  the  morn,  if  I  sleep  after  light, 
For  I  might  be  resting  so  sweetly  —  Good-night! 


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